


A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, POV Alternating, Time Shenanigans, spider monster peter parker - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28400532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: In the bitter cold of winter, Flash Thompson is transported to the idyll of spring and a quiet manor home to the past, with hints of things that were and could have been.If only his host were more gracious.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Flash Thompson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _As when at times there breaks through branches bare  
>  A morning vibrant with the breath of spring,  
> About this poet-head a splendour rare  
> Transforms it almost to a mortal thing._
> 
> _There is as yet no shadow in his glance,  
>  To cool his temples for the laurel's glow;  
> But later o'er those marble brows, perchance,  
> A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow,_
> 
> _And single petals one by one will fall  
>  O'er the still mouth and break its silent thrall,  
> —The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile  
> As though a song were rising there the while._
> 
> "Early Apollo" Rainer Maria Rilke (tr. Jessie Lemont, 1918)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: there's a brief scene of drowning/falling through a frozen lake in the beginning of this, just FYI.

The lawn before Peter stretched a sizeable distance, immaculate in its layout, with carefully placed fruit trees in perfectly straight lines and artfully placed grasses circling the pond. Angular, manicured hedges, and particular flower combinations.

"What do you think…?" Norman looked down at him with such smugness, such self-importance.

Peter took his glasses off, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket to clean one of the lenses as he said, simply, "I don't want it."

He and Aunt May could find somewhere else to live. Some other way to keep going. Peter could find a better job. Prosperity had been growing in the wake of the war and the Spanish flu. Things had begun to improve despite all odds and the weight of loss—he could do something to support his aunt, and their modest life together. He'd have to.

"Of course you want it." Norman swept his arm out to draw Peter's attention back to the 50 acres of land the mansion headed. "It's perfect."

Peter shook his head. He straightened his glasses, and turned his back to Norman. "No, thank you."

That, of course, would not stand.

"You insolent—" Norman composed himself. Set his hand on Peter's shoulder, almost gently. Skin-crawlingly so. His voice softened, and he said, "I can give you anything you desire."

Peter raised his eyebrows, and looked down at the hand on his shoulder with more than a touch of disgust.

"I want _nothing_ you have to offer."

The most honest words Peter had ever spoken.

Norman's eyes hardened, and his grip tightened on Peter's shoulder like steel.

"Then you will have _nothing else_."

And he let Peter go.

✧ _100 years later – January 2020_ ✧

Flash shivered as he walked through the falling snow, tightening his jacket over his EMT uniform. The streetlamp closest to him flickered, and the wind bit his skin as it tried to slip under his collar and up his pant legs. The sky had that dull pink cast to it, thick with clouds, and snowflakes caught on his eyelashes—he blinked them away, only for more to take their place. A seemingly never-ending swirl, as the snowflakes grew fatter and denser, and the wind swept them directly into his eyes.

Flash screwed up his face, and tugged his hat a little lower over his forehead. He shielded his eyes with one bare hand—he'd lost his gloves that morning, and the cold stung against his knuckles.

Distantly, he could hear a dog barking, but other than that it was near silent. Eerie, whether in Manhattan or Queens. He covered his mouth with his hand, warming his nose and fingers a bit, with steam billowing out around his head.

In a blink, all the streetlights went out at once.

A whole block of houses flickered into darkness, leaving only the glow of the snow to light the night.

Flash stopped, and looked up. Dizzying, the whole sky turning with the snowfall.

The wind picked up again, and as Flash took a step forward he realized he could hardly see a thing.

There was the sidewalk, a lamppost, some trees in the park to his right… dim shadows marked only by their darkness compared to the snow.

Flash squinted against the driving storm, thicker and faster and harsher. Each flake hit with a raw sting and he had to turn his head down against the sudden flurry, the way it rushed him. But with all the stubbornness he'd cultivated his whole life, he pulled his scarf up over his face, and adjusted his hat again, and trudged forward where he knew the sidewalk had been.

It took Flash only a few moments to realize that he was lost.

Neither a curb nor road. Not a post, a tree, a fence. Not anything in sight other than his own steaming breath. Just white, whipping around him.

The snow crunched under his sneakers, walking shoes decidedly not suited for the weather, and something in the air just felt… wrong. Something in the colors. Wrong. Silvered, shadowy, flickering on the edges of his vision.

He couldn't hear anything other than the snow and his own breathing.

 _Shit_.

Flash closed his eyes against the snow for just a moment, breathing deeply through his dampened scarf.

If he kept walking he'd find a house or a tree or something, eventually. He'd been a good toss away from a whole row of houses just a few seconds ago! He was just tired, and probably had low blood sugar or something. Lots of people in the cold who needed a paramedic, and he'd been run ragged all day. Once he got home, he could melt this sensation away and settle down with a nice mug of cocoa.

But nothing swam into view. Just more snow, until…

No, there was something.

A shadow on the horizon, like trees. Or ghosts. Or both.

Flash picked up the pace, and yes, those were trees. Black silhouettes, reaching toward the sky like bare, wizened fingers. Like strange shadow puppets. And maybe even some streetlights, though he couldn't be sure. He hurried forward, the snow nearly up to his knees already now—He couldn't seem to get closer. He was halfway there across this wide, white expanse—

Something cracked beneath Flash's feet.

He plunged through the ice, into black water colder than anything he'd felt in his life.

It dragged Flash down like he was weighted with iron boots, and he reached up toward the wavering fracture above, but he could hardly move, and everything seemed to darken and blur, and his lungs felt both as if they were on fire and as if they were frozen solid all the way through. Like his veins were all full of cracking ice.

As his vision faded, he thought something touched his outstretched hand, so blue in the darkness of the water, but he could barely feel a thing.

✧ _June_ ✧

Something soft woke Flash, like the brush of a flower petal. He breathed in deep, the air fresh with sweet scents and the slightest breeze, warm and pleasant in his lungs. Light played across his eyelids, and silk whispered against his bare skin as he stretched, and finally opened his eyes.

An iron lattice cobwebbed above him, covered in green leaves and some tight orange rosebuds, as well as a few older blossoms, white and subsiding, through which the bright sunlight filtered, just late enough in the day that it also slanted through the open sides of the garden bower. Flash pushed himself upright with a frown, and looked around.

There was a pond nearby, with blooming trees and plants all around it, a few late-season irises, and beyond it, an orchard of ripe fruit trees. Closer, a variety of wildflowers and bushes.

Flash looked down at himself, pulling at the collar of the silk dressing robe draped about his shoulders and tied snugly around his waist.

He was dry, and clean, and warm, and naked underneath it. Situated on an array of cushions, with fine drapes of gossamer hanging around him. His EMT uniform and other things nowhere in sight.

And aside from all that, not a single flake of snow. Just the summer sky.

Slow, jazzy music played somewhere nearby, just distant enough to be soft and soothing.

"What… the hell?" Flash ran his hand back through his hair, and finally noticed the tray set out on the bench beside him.

Fresh sliced peaches and red raspberries, handmade meringues all white and crackled… A slender glass full of mineral water, with the brown bottle right beside it… And a pastrami sandwich, too. With a pickle, even. So beautiful, fantastical gardens straight out of fairy tales had deli sandwiches too...

Flash's stomach growled, and he realized with a sudden clarity just how hungry he was.

The food was good—he didn't normally make a habit of drinking plain sparkling water, with its metallic flavor, but it paired well with the fruit in particular, and before he knew it he only had an empty set of dishes.

He brushed a crumb from his lap and noticed—surely it hadn't been there before—a stack of folded clothes. Curious, he pulled the top garment away and shook it out.

"Wow."

What _year_ had he landed in to be presented with one-piece underwear?

Maybe he'd died.

Flash stood so he could get dressed, slipping out of his silk robe and only marveling for a few seconds at the _actual_ sock garters placed neatly with a pair of white nubuck shoes. "Is this Heaven?" And the detachable shirt collar! "Or Hell, maybe?"

He received no response, of course. Though he thought for just a second that he heard a rustle—but when he looked over his shoulder, there was nothing. Just the rose garden behind him, and a brick manor covered in crawling yellowish roses and leafy vines. He squinted a little… but when nothing popped out of the summer shadows, he relaxed and finished dressing.

And wasn't _this_ snazzy…

Baby blue slacks cuffed at the ankle and belted high around his waist, a plain white shirt tucked in, and a pretty linen floral tie, with socks to match the accents.

There was a straw hat, too, but he left that with the jacket and vest and chose to roll his sleeves up instead, smoothing his hair out of his face as he stepped out of his little shaded bower and into the bright sunlight. He shaded his eyes, and took in the more visible rose garden now, that led up to the house.

It fell somewhere between wild and manicured, overseen but allowed to flourish naturally, healthy and full. The path leading up to it was edged in all sorts of beautiful flowers, baby's breath abundant and spreading, and summer berries hanging ripe on the bush. Flash trailed his hand over some raspberry leaves, and looked up at the mansion. The windows caught the sunlight, curtains all drawn. Pretty brick, a little weathered in spots but clean even where climbing roses and ivy reached up the sides of the house.

A shadow seemed to move and Flash froze.

But there was nothing.

Or… no.

He couldn't be sure.

"Hello?"

There was still music coming from somewhere, gentle and distant. Maybe there was an open window.

"Is someone there?" Flash ducked around a small dogwood tree, into the rose garden proper. It looked like it might have been some kind of ornamental maze once, but now the paths were a little less defined as pale pink and white roses spilled out over the walkways, with forget-me-nots peeking around their knees, and the buds of deeper colors beginning to show, waiting for late June to open their fiery petals.

Something skittered away behind a tree and he caught his breath, almost dizzied by the scent of the garden—just shy of overwhelming.

There was a shadow, glimpses between flowers and leaves. His eyes tried to slide away but there was definitely _something_ and Flash was never one to back down—"Hey!" He moved toward where he'd last seen it, his stride purposeful. "I know you're there!"

Nothing in the spot he could have sworn someone had been.

"What the—"

A hand landed on his shoulder and Flash whirled with a shout, overbalancing and landing on his ass among the flowers and their heady perfume.

It was…

Flash stared.

"I don't know if I should laugh or scream."

It was a man, sort of. Not exactly. Man shaped in the upper body. And the rest… well… the rest seemed to be a giant spider. Except that he wore a cream-colored three-piece suit, all tightly done up to his chin, with a striped bow tie in blue and red. Two-tone brown shoes, too… almost like doggy booties… With _argyle socks._

Like something straight out of a children's book or a fairy tale.

Flash didn't expect the dry, "Well you already did the latter, so maybe try the former just for the sake of thoroughness."

The way the spider-man's oddly-shaped mouth moved as he spoke was mesmerizing to watch. His face, strikingly human, maybe even good looking, but with eight eyes and some kind of split jaw with two tusks or fangs or something jutting out around the chin, and the whole thing was just…

Strange.

Honestly? He was kinda cute.

And…

"Are you wearing _glasses_?" And a _hat_. Flash simply could not believe this.

The spider-beast doffed his straw boater. "Very observant." He affected a patronizing tone and added, "They're so I can _see_." As if he were talking to a child, slowly, with a grin splitting his face. "Just like _everyone else_."

Flash glared at him as he got to his feet. "I know what glasses are for, asshole."

That only made the beast grin wider, which in turn made Flash's ears grow hot. He grumbled and crossed his arms. "Whatever. Who _are_ you, anyway?"

Eight round eyes watched him carefully, shiny and black.

And then the stranger reached out one clawed hand and said, "You can call me Peter."

For a moment, Flash just stared at his hand. But when it became clear there were no ill intentions, he took it.

"Nice to meet you, I guess."

"You guess?" Peter had a strong grip and long fingers, his palms calloused and the backs of his hands hairy.

"What, am I supposed to be grateful you snuck up on me and then talked down to me?" Flash stuck his hands in his pockets and looked away, at the garden and the mansion again. "…Is this your house?"

For a second Peter looked at him, vaguely amused, but he nodded. "I've lived here for ten years." He tilted his head toward it, stepping forward slightly. Clearly trying not to spook Flash.

"Wow." Flash stepped back as Peter stepped toward him. The suit did a lot to make Peter seem more approachable, and he wasn't _too_ frightful to look at, but he still had eight eyes and weird face-claws and a spider body attached to him. Not even eight-legged pants or cute little brown-and-cream doggy booties could make that entirely palatable. "All by yourself?"

Peter snorted. "Sure, me and all my adoring fans." He moved past Flash, toward a small fountain in the center of the rose garden, and settled down on the stone path. And even the fountain wasn't free of fragrant roses, creeping canes reaching to caress the stone and dip toward the water. "And now you."

Flash hesitated a moment but he followed Peter and sat down on the edge of the fountain to not-quite-face him. He cleared his throat, fidgeting his clasped hands in his lap. He didn't really know how to broach the subject, but clearly he had _not_ been here an hour before, and now that he'd gotten over the initial shock the obvious question presented itself…

"So… where _is_ here?"

And _when_.

"Queens." Oh, well that wasn't too bad. "1930." Peter paused. "Though I haven't exactly… moved with the times, so maybe it's more like 1920."

 _Oh_.

Flash cocked his head, frowning a little. "Wait, I'm confused."

"Don't hurt yourself thinking too hard." Peter looked at him. "I've been here since 1920, about a decade ago. But I can't leave, and even if I could, I wouldn't be able to go anywhere. I'm a little bit behind-the-times."

A little bit—

"1920 was a _hundred_ _years_ ago!"

Peter shrugged. "From your perspective, maybe."

It was all Flash could do not to gape. Everything was really sinking in, now. The clothes, Peter's accent—strong enough to rend a New York City cab in two, though surprisingly modern, all things considered—

And then there was the season, and the idyllic quiet... not a shout, not a siren, not a dog's bark or a—

The growl of an engine broke him from his realization and he perked up at the same time Peter's head snapped toward the house.

Almost faster than Flash could process, Peter was on his feet, taking Flash by the arm and pulling him after with tremendous strength—hurriedly, Peter ushered Flash through an open door in the back of the house and pushed him toward a set of stairs with a sharp, "You ought to get ready for dinner. Just follow the spiders. And please style your hair—you look like you just woke up."

"The—" Flash blinked, as Peter left him almost as quickly as he'd grabbed him, disappearing out the front door. "…The spiders?"

Flash looked around him, alone at the foot of the staircase, and… There was a little line of spiders marching toward the top of the steps.

"…oh."

When he followed, he found what seemed to be the master bedroom, and a large connected bathroom with a lot of chrome fixtures and lemon yellow tiles. Judging by the way the spiders congregated on the sink-top around a shaving kit, it was intended to be used. The kit included a straight razor and a pair of tiny scissors. Plus hair grease next to it.

Well, Flash had shaved that morning, but maybe he _could_ use a touchup…

He took care of his face, washed and tidied thoroughly, and used just enough oil in his hair to tame his curls back. When he'd finished with that, he found another set of clothes hung up waiting for him.

From the bottom up, fine black socks that reminded him of his mother's old pantyhose but a little thicker, held up around the calf with white sock garters. A gleaming white shirt, plain-fronted with the collar sharply turned down, and French cuffs with simple silver cufflinks. A black waistcoat, and a black bowtie which Flash only managed to make _two_ attempts at before it tied _itself_ —startling but not unwelcome, considering he was used to cheap clip-ons.

The final pieces—a midnight blue tuxedo jacket with peaked black silk lapels, matching pants, shiny black shoes, and a crisp white kerchief folded in the breast pocket.

Not all that different from a modern tuxedo, now that Flash looked at himself in the mirror.

Probably fancier than he'd ever dressed in his entire life. A perfect fit, too, as if it were tailored exactly to his body. And he had to admit, it looked… pretty good.

As if sensing he'd finished, the bathroom door swung open, inviting him back out into the master bedroom.

Now that he took this moment alone to really look, he found the décor very homey, and some of it looked to be handmade, though other pieces seemed comparatively expensive—an exquisitely carved wooden table near the door displayed a few black and white photos with a doily underneath that gave off a decidedly rustic feeling.

Flash inspected the photos. They were nice, if a little grainy; one of an older couple arm-in-arm at what seemed to be Coney Island, but from a long time ago. One of a baby in a tiny sailor suit.

A couple of other photos seemed newer, more crisp and silvery. That old woman, again, a little older, knitting. Not one of those fancy posed portraits. She was smiling, and she looked like she was about to say something.

Flash smiled to himself.

The other photo showed a tall, lean young man, but his face looked like it had been burned out of the picture. He had his arm around the old woman in that one, and she had her head on his shoulder.

Flash ran his finger over the glass of the frame.

"Oy."

Flash jumped.

"You can defile my things later." Peter looked… possibly even more like a children's book character now, all dressed up in a black tux, with his dark hair plastered to his skull. At least he wasn't wearing a top hat. "Dinner will be ready in an hour."

Flash made a face. "Sorry, I was just… looking."

"With your fingers?"

"…I have eyes on my fingertips." Flash cracked a grin.

Peter sighed. 

"Alright, Wisenheimer, come on." Peter gestured Flash toward him like a dog, turning slightly away from Flash, though he didn't look away entirely as he added, "Drink with us."

Oh.

"Wait—" Flash hurried after Peter, down the stairs. "Like alcohol? Also, who's 'us'?"

Peter looked at him strangely as Flash came up beside him. "Are you against alcohol?"

Flash puffed his chest out. "I just thought it would be, you know… _prohibited_."

 _Zing_.

For a moment, Peter stopped walking. Then he laughed, and carried on toward a sitting room. "Let me guess, you're big on temperance." He hung from the doorway just long enough to say, "I'll make you a hot gin flip, cut the hair—a nice omelet, no?" He grinned and disappeared into the room.

 _Rude_.

He still hadn't answered Flash's other question.

"Do you make fun of everyone you meet, or am I just special?" Flash wasn't about to be left out in the hall, so he strode after Peter through the open doorway.

A tall man was already there, standing by an open door looking out on the garden, and he turned with one raised eyebrow and an Old Fashioned in his hand. He looked familiar, in a severe mulberry-purple tux; all crisp lines and perfectly pressed, high quality fabrics, decidedly modern despite an oddly old-fashioned air underlying the 21st century cut. His wavy auburn hair was slicked back in tightly controlled waves, an unusual style that Flash had seen on the news—

"You're special." Peter produced a cocktail shaker from a liquor cabinet that Flash could have sworn hadn't existed just a moment earlier, and proceeded to measure together gin, vermouth, lemon juice, and raspberry syrup, pulling them from shadows that seemed much too shallow to hold all those bottles, talking all the while and distracting Flash from the other man—

"I just see a pretty face like yours and you can imagine how _that_ goes—" Peter produced an egg, seemingly from thin air, and cracked the whites directly into his shaker with expert coordination, spilling not even a _bit_ of yolk. "In the eyes, out the… Well." He smirked, and tipped the yolk into his mouth.

"Good Lord, Peter." The other guest pushed away from his place by one of the open glass doors that made up one half-round wall. "You'll scare the poor thing off."

Peter scoffed and proceeded to dry shake his drink as the man took Flash by the elbow and led him toward a seat with a quiet, "He can be abrasive." Then, "How would you like a Coke?"

"Oh," Flash blinked. "Coke would be great, actually."

Much like Peter had done, the man produced a bottle from some unseen place—and a bottle opener too—and poured Flash out a glass of Jazz Age cola, on ice.

"I'm Norman Osborn, by the way, you might have heard of me."

 _Oh_.

"That _Oscorp_ guy?"

Pharmaceutical and engineering CEO, big name in Manhattan, palatial mansion on Long Island, and filthy fucking rich. Capitalist endeavor on legs.

Mr. Osborn raised one smooth eyebrow, but he handed Flash his drink. "At your service." He held one hand out to shake, rings catching in the light.

Peter, meanwhile, had added ice to his mixer and was violently shaking his drink a second time to chill it. Maybe _too_ violently.

"Thank you…" Flash sipped at his not-quite-familiar soda and eyed Peter with slight concern.

Osborn's smile was as slick as everything else about him, and his eyes dauntingly sharp. "You're quite welcome, Mr…?"

"Uh—Flash." Wait. "Um, Thompson." Tacked on—"Sir."

Norman seemed either amused or disgusted by him, maybe both.

"What a _unique_ name." No warmth in the eyes.

Flash smiled awkwardly as he considered how to respond to that without just telling the guy to go fuck himself.

Peter cleared his throat.

He seemed done with his shaking now, having strained his drink into a coupe glass. Vibrant pink with thick foam and topped with three plump red raspberries skewered together.

"A toast?" He raised his Clover Club toward Flash.

Flash raised his glass too. "Uh, sure."

"To _fate_." Peter plucked his raspberry skewer from the top of the glass and knocked his drink back in its entirety.

Beside Flash, Norman sighed.

Flash could already tell, this was going to be a weird night.

✧✧✧

For all his sharp comments, Peter was actually a pretty funny guy. And not just on account of being a giant spider centaur wearing a suit. Sure, he wasn't nearly as smooth as Norman, but in some ways that was a good thing—something about the notorious Oscorp CEO made Flash's skin _crawl_.

Maybe it was that his teeth were too white, or that his rings were too shiny, or that everything he said seemed to have an underlying air of condescension. It was like when Flash read _The Great Gatsby_ before dropping out of school—he had a voice _full of money_ , except instead of that being appealing like the titular character's love interest, it accompanied an uncomfortable paternalism and a carefully maintained sense of control.

Peter, on the other hand, despite being downright unsettling to look at with all his legs and eyes and curving claws, had a much blunter way about him, not afraid to speak his mind and not interested in pretending.

It was refreshingly familiar. Very New York, very modern, despite the dated trappings of his house and clothes.

"How'd you do that?" Flash asked after the fourth or fifth time Peter pulled something from nowhere, leaning close in curiosity.

"What?" Peter tilted his head with a small, smug smile, and brandished his hand. "You mean this?" And so saying, he pulled a single rose from thin air.

Flash's eyebrows shot up.

"It's easy." Peter held the rose out to Flash, its thorns as glossy as his claws in the incandescent lighting. "I simply ask for it to exist, and it does."

Careful not to prick himself, Flash took the rose. It didn't disappear, or burst into flames, or crumble into dust. It was just a beautiful pink rose, straight from the garden out behind the manor. Sweet-smelling, thickly petaled and delicate in color, its freshly cut, densely prickled stem shining wet.

"Amazing…" Flash held the blossom to his nose, as he looked down the dining table.

Dinner was just about finished, and their plates empty. Outside, it had finally begun to get dark.

"And minor." Norman seemed vaguely amused as he set his fork aside—his perpetual state throughout the night. "Let me accompany you out to the garden and I can show you something _worth_ seeing."

Peter glared at him, but Flash—against his better judgment—found his curiosity piqued.

"Like what?" He straightened up in his chair, setting the rose across his empty plate.

"You know what—" Peter stood from his cushioned place at the table, abrupt and a little stiff. "I think I ought to go to bed. You two do what you like."

And before Flash could think of anything to say other than, "Oh," Peter had rushed off with his eight matched shoes tapping against the marble tiles, disappearing through the door.

Norman stood, too, with a sigh. "You'll have to excuse him." He held his arm out to help Flash up—not that Flash needed helping, and he didn't take it. Norman handled the snub in-stride and put his hand to the small of Flash's back to lead him away from the table. "He's got a temper, and he doesn't like to be shown up."

Somehow, Flash got the idea that it wasn't quite that simple, but he kept his mouth shut for once in his life.

"Let's go outside, and I'll show you a little trick."

That sounded ominous, but Flash said, "Okay, as long as you don't try to pull a coin out of my ear."

He grinned crookedly, and Norman smiled in such a way as to show he didn't find the joke particularly clever.

"Of course not."

It was all Flash could do not to be pulled along like a paper boat on a stream, with Norman's hand at his back. The man was _tall_ , and solid, and even that light touch felt like a steel push that Flash couldn't resist. At least, out in the garden, Norman finally stepped ahead of him, leaving Flash feeling a lot lighter in the warm night air.

Red still stained the sky slightly at the edges, and as it darkened, the garden lit up with blinking spots of light—fireflies, mostly over the pond, and a variety of pretty lanterns in strategic placements to accentuate the walkways and water features.

"It's beautiful…" Flash trailed after Norman, drawn toward the pond and its star-like fireflies. He let himself turn around in a circle as he walked.

Norman indulged him with a seemingly friendly, "Isn't it?" He reached out to snag a leaf from an ornamental tree, snapping it with a blunt nail. "I commissioned it myself, though Peter's let it run a little… wild in the years since I gifted it." He wrinkled his nose. "He lacks an eye for _design_."

"Oh," Flash joined Norman by the water. "I like it, though. It feels… friendly."

Norman smiled tightly. "I suppose."

He uncovered a rowboat, as if he had just peeled away a portion of the garden itself to reveal the form. Flash's eyes went wide, though he kept his amazement to himself as Norman held his hand out and—before Flash could really process it—pulled Flash down into the boat. With a heave, Norman pushed the boat into the pond, and then hopped in after Flash to row them out to the center.

Fireflies swirled around them, though not a single one came within a certain sphere of orbit. It was like boating out into the milky way, and as Flash looked around, and up, he realized the sky was already thick with stars. Brighter than he'd ever seen in his life, even just after sunset.

For a moment he hardly breathed, so transfixed…

"Come now."

Norman's voice snapped him out of it, and he took a sharp breath as he looked away from the sky. Norman let the oars down and stood, careful not to rock the boat too much. Flash still held to the sides—he didn't particularly want to fall into a pond for the second time that day, warm weather or not.

"Watch."

The air cooled slightly, and Norman drew his fingers along his palm where he stood—moved almost as if flicking a card from a deck, and in a single breath the water of the pond began to glimmer. Norman seemed almost to pull at it—threads of frost formed in shimmering spots and Flash gripped the boat a little tighter.

Threads became needles became twisting columns that reached around and formed arches overhead, a sparkling pergola of sorts, a birdcage of crystal-clear ice that practically glowed in the light from the garden.

"Wow…"

Norman bowed, and sat again across from Flash.

"More impressive than a rose, by far." He smiled in a smug way that made him seem like a very satisfied big cat, and leaned back on his elbows. The picture of purposeful casualness, perfected lounging with eyes just as sharp and calculating as the moment Flash had met him.

Suddenly, Flash felt very much like the bird in Norman's cage.

✧✧✧

The glass stem in Peter's grip cracked between his fingers, and the Brandy Crusta within sloshed out, a few drops hitting the toe of one of his polished shoes. He let the shards of glass fell to the carpet at his feet, and shook his hand free of mixed cognac and bloody glass.

A swarm of his spiders immediately began to weave the mess up in webbing, to be tidied away.

Peter's focus—at least, some of it—was on the garden, and Norman playing his tricks with this version of Eugene Thompson.

This version, as opposed to the young Irish immigrant Peter had been begrudging friends with in his youth, over a decade ago for him. He had died in 1918. Before this manor had become Peter's prison. But now, an adult man, Peter's own age again through some luck of dimensions and time and coincidence. From some other future, perhaps. Or… some other past? Some world apart from Peter's. And there he was, with Norman Osborn creeping close. Caught in his grasp, and Peter's curse would go on forever.

Except… Flash didn't seem all that receptive, suddenly.

From wonderment to tension, saying something with his knees tight together as Norman leaned close.

Peter watched them through his window, claws absently tapping against the sill.

Of course Norman showed no indication of respecting Flash's apparent discomfort, with his hand on Flash's leg.

Peter dug his claws into the wood with a scrape.

Surely that wasn't playing by the rules, was it?

The conditions as outlined: to regain his form, Peter would need to fall in love, and be fallen in love with, freely and openly, his whole form included, beastly as that may have been. And he would be given that chance, without interference or intervention.

Yet here was Norman, very obviously trying to seduce a visibly uncomfortable and _much_ younger man than he, with motives Peter could easily guess at.

After all, if Flash broke the curse…

The birdcage of Norman's own creation collapsed around them in a shower of ice shards, and the resulting wave propelled the rowboat to shore as a cloud of startled fireflies dispersed in a shimmering constellation. Flash climbed out almost the second wood touched gravel and hurried away from the pond with a storm in his step.

Norman looked up at the house, straight at Peter, and Peter waved.

If Norman wouldn't play by the rules, Peter would _make_ him.

✧✧✧

The nerve of some guys!

And Osborn was _following_ him, too!

"I said no!" Flash whirled and pointed an accusatory finger at Norman, who seemed just as unruffled as if the past few minutes hadn't happened. "I'm _not_ interested, you fucking creep!"

Norman held his hands up in surrender, though he smiled somewhat coldly. "I apologize if I misread the situation…"

 _If_ —!

Sticking his weaseling hands where they didn't belong, without permission!

_If!_

One more word and Flash would start swinging.

"Mr. Osborn!" A sharp voice, from the solarium door that led into the house. Peter, with a smoking jacket tied around his waist and his arms crossed. "I think it's time you retire for the night, before you make this situation worse than it already is."

Norman narrowed his eyes, but he smiled sickly-sweet, and nodded first to Peter, and then to Flash with a deep, over-flourished bow. Mocking. His expensive watch glinted in the garden lamplight and he murmured, "Goodnight."

His gaze lingered, his eyes daggers, but he turned his back to Flash and moved past Peter into the house.

Flash glared after him, hands on his hips.

He let out a breath, and let himself relax, head dropping.

"You know," Flash almost laughed to himself. "I've been on bad dates but usually the other guy isn't old enough to be my _dad_." He made a face, and looked up at Peter. "Thanks."

Peter shrugged. "He sees, he wants, he takes." He stepped back into the mansion, though he extended a hand—his eyes shone from the shadows, eight black holes. "But you know what?" He folded his long, clawed fingers into a hairy fist. "He can make do like the rest of us."

He grinned, suddenly—made a lewd gesture, and the mood lightened considerably.

Flash rolled his eyes. " _Perve_."

But Peter's off-color joke settled in a familiar, friendly place in his chest, as opposed to the squirming, frightened, clenching creature in his gut. He grinned, too, and followed Peter inside.

"So, you haven't yet told me—" Peter didn't bother to lock the door to the garden, folding his hands behind his back as he walked toward the staircase. "You know where I'm from, but where are _you_ from?"

Something in the way he moved, the way his numerous folding legs carried his arachnid body up each step, was fluidly unsettling and yet full of predatory grace. Not like Norman—no, Peter was more… obvious about it. Honest. Not hiding it under the surface. He moved like he knew he was as much animal as man, and as much man as animal.

(All this in spite of his dainty shoes and carefully tailored clothing.)

"Um, Queens?" Flash followed after a few steps behind, trailing his hand along the polished wooden banister. "You know—Forest Hills. But not yours, I guess."

Peter almost laughed. "No, not mine." He waited for Flash at the top of the stairs and said, "Let me guess the year."

"No hints?"

"No hints." Peter gestured down the hall, leading Flash past a sitting room, and a few closed doors. "Two… thousand."

Flash raised his eyebrows. "Twenty."

"Damn." Peter grinned, and he had fangs. "My math must be fuzzy from drinks."

He stopped at a beautiful, solid wood door which opened at his gesture. "Here we are."

"My room—which you saw earlier—is directly next door." Peter nodded to the other wooden door at the end of the hall. "We'll share a bathroom but don't worry—" His eyes twinkled. "I'll only watch you sleep when I'm lonely."

Flash pulled a face, but he couldn't help laughing a little anyway. "And how often is that?"

"Oh, every night." Peter reached for Flash's hand.

Again, he just couldn't help but laugh, as Peter kissed the back of his hand. It was a little ridiculous, a giant spider-man making these jokes at him, but something about it put him at ease in a way that was probably dangerous. For all he knew, Peter planned on mummifying him in spider webs and sucking out his juices under the cover of night.

Or whatever it was that spiders did.

"O- _kay_." Flash stole his hand away from Peter, hiding it behind his back, and ducked into his room still grinning. "Goodnight, peeping tom."

"Sweet dreams."

The door shut of its own accord.

As his laughter fizzled down, a lightness in his chest, Flash took in his room. It was spacious, like Peter's, with a fireplace currently sitting cold, and a lovely table set with a few chairs. There was a small drink station, with two crystal glasses and a pitcher of water.

The rest of the room was finely decorated but just as comfortable as the house itself, in sheer colors and simple patterns, soft rugs on hardwood flooring. Candles on the mantelpiece.

There was a changing screen painted with butterflies, blocking the room into vaguely separate sections, and a wardrobe of dark wood. A dresser and a side table and a bookcase with a plush maroon chair.

A petal pink organza canopy hung from the four poster bed, and the sheets were of jade green linen with white pillowcases. It was light and airy, and a cool evening breeze lifted the translucent off-white curtains from the open window as Flash trailed his fingers over the bed hangings.

A shallow crystal vase sat full of forget-me-nots and baby's breath, and a few pale pink rose petals scattered the wood beside them.

Well wasn't _that_ pretty?

Flash rubbed a rose petal between his thumb and forefinger. It was velvety soft, and even just the single petal smelled wonderful. After a second of admiration, he let it flutter back down.

There were some clothes draped over the paper screen, and Flash busied himself changing for bed.

He hesitated for a moment, uncertain how things were meant to be worn, but took his underwear off before pulling on the ankle-length nightshirt. It wasn't too sheer, after all… And if he needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, this seemed easier.

Flash left the other things for morning—for now, it was time to sleep, and after he stopped in the bathroom to ready up, he turned the lights out with their push-button switch and climbed into bed under the lightweight sheets, with the soft summer breeze and the distant sound of crickets. The organza hangings fluttered closed around him, and before he knew it he found himself drifting into unconsciousness.

✧✧✧

Flash slept deeply and woke around noon feeling more rested than he had in years.

Sunlight drifted through the window, turning everything warm and bright as it highlighted vibrant splashes of color in the upholstery and woodgrain. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was, thinking only that his bedroom sure had changed, but then it all rushed in at once and he sat with a sharp gasp.

Right.

Right, this _wasn't_ his bedroom.

Or his apartment.

Or even his world?

He wasn't clear on that aspect. Norman had been from the same New York as Flash, that much felt true in his gut. But this place… It felt almost like a snow globe or a diorama, encapsulated within itself, though when he climbed out of bed and stuck his head out the window he could see forest outside of the property's brick and iron fence. And yet… that part of the world seemed less vibrant. Less real, compared to the inner sanctuary that comprised Peter's mansion and its lush, flowering grounds.

Flash took a deep breath of the early summer air.

Its own world, indeed.

He went to the wardrobe to dress behind the changing screen, into his one-piece underwear, short and airy for the warm weather. He covered himself with a dressing robe, and tugged on a pair of house slippers over his bare feet. (Though it was warm enough he probably could have gone without.)

In the stillness of the early afternoon, he made his way downstairs.

Osborn must have left before Flash woke up, because no one was around.

Quiet music played throughout the house, indiscernible in its exact source… but other than that it was nearly silent. Only simple sounds like the birds outside, the rustle of the summer breeze... Peter was nowhere to be found, but there was a lunch set up in a small room attached to the dining room. Sandwiches, fresh fruit, water and seltzer, laid out for the choosing.

Flash ate, and when he finished with that, he returned to his room to get dressed in earnest so he could explore a little more.

The outfit of the day included pants of a soft jade green, and a delicately striped shirt, with a boldly patterned necktie, pale yellow socks, and white shoes. As before, Flash left the jacket and vest behind and rolled his sleeves up, though this time he grabbed the straw hat set out for him, tucking it under his arm as he made his way downstairs again.

As he headed out into the garden, he put on the hat to shade his eyes from the bright sunlight, and half-jogged out through the rose garden.

The fountain bubbled pleasantly, but he kept going, past the flowers and around the pond.

The orchard stretched out before him, with a mix of ripe branches and empty trees. Probably some meant for certain seasons, so as not to overwhelm… There were peaches and plums and nectarines, though, heavy on the bough, and Flash picked one particularly ripe nectarine from a little higher up. It gave so easily, it probably would have been overripe within the next week.

It had a little bit of dirt on it—but there was a handkerchief folded up in his pocket, so he took that out to carefully dust away any little bits of grime clinging to the skin.

It may have been the best nectarine he'd ever tasted. So ripe it dripped down his arm and his chin, and he was glad he'd rolled his sleeves up or he'd have gotten juice all over. There was nothing graceful in the way he licked his own arm—but it wasn't as though there was anyone around to judge him. He could be as messy as he liked.

Or so he thought.

" _Boy_ —"

Flash jumped, nearly dropping his nectarine.

Peter leaned casually against one of the fruit trees.

"Haven't you heard of Hades and Persephone?"

Flash glared at Peter. "Of _course_ I have." He took a vicious bite, and with his mouth full mumbled, "I figured I was already stuck here, anyway."

Not to mention—"And I already ate food you gave me yesterday!"

Peter laughed, as he held his hands up. Placation, surrender. "Okay, okay." He turned to pick a plum. "Technicalities of mythology." As he turned the plum over in his hand, he quieted his voice to add, "I'm sorry."

Flash looked down at his nectarine, but he shrugged. "No one'll miss me, anyway."

For a moment, Peter seemed like he might say something, at that. But he just frowned, and stabbed his claws into the flesh of his freshly-picked plum to split it in two, and dug the pit out to fall to the ground so he could pop the plum whole into his fanged mouth.

Flash tried not to stare at him, but he was just so… sharp. Even his creepy-cute face and summery attire—his ice cream colored plaids and his loose eight-legged knickers—couldn't disguise the beast beneath. It was captivating in a way, and Flash barely paid any mind to the juice dripping down his own arm… until their eyes met and he remembered what his mother had always said about staring at strange men. Flash ducked his head, and occupied himself with his nectarine.

"You know," Peter, on the other hand, began to talk. "I find that, personally, the best way to eat a fresh nectarine is to do so shirtless. Preferably naked, actually."

He didn't seem to care when Flash coughed on a bite, only continuing, "Lounging in the pond is always a nice way to do it, though it's not technically made for swimming, because Norman is a pretentious leech who believes in ornamental water features. But I like to take a dip now and then anyway, out of spite." He sighed. "When I was younger I wasn't so bad on the eyes, and I'll tell you right now, nothing beats skinny-dipping with pretty girls."

Flash's ears burned hot, but he cleared his throat and offered, "Yeah?" He sucked some juice off his fingers.

"…Yeah." Peter shifted in the dappled shadows of the fruit trees. "Sometimes pretty boys, too."

Their eyes met again, and Peter's blank eyes sent a shiver down Flash's spine. The claws jutting from his jaw shone sharp in the sunlight, and no straw hat in the world could temper the fact that everything about him was just slightly… unnatural.

Flash glanced away. "Pretty boys are okay, I guess." He gnawed on the pit of his nectarine. "If you're into that kinda thing."

Amusement colored Peter's voice as he asked, "Oh, are you too good for pretty boys?"

"No." Flash wound up, and threw the pit as far as he could. It landed a good distance away in the grass. "I just like… well." He blushed. Stuck a finger in his mouth, sticky with juice. Shrugged. "Mm."

Peter laughed quietly. "Very elucidating."

"Shut up." Flash grumbled. "I'm not good with… stuff."

" _Stuff_."

He glowered at the ground. "Relationship stuff."

Peter relented, with a soft sigh, and said only, "Okay."

"Okay." Flash itched his nose and turned away. "I'm gonna go wash my hands."

He didn't wait for a response, just hurried off through the lines of sweet-smelling trees until he reached the garden, and the pump near the toolshed. The water was cold and clear, and Flash splashed his far-too-warm face as he knelt there.

 _Relationships_.

No, he wasn't so good with those.

✧✧✧

Flash explored the house throughout the evening. Not too in-depth, just getting the lay of the land as he moved from room to room. There was the reception room, with coat hangers and the like. A small office, a little bit dusty. The dining room for guests, and the smaller one for breakfast, attached to a pantry which was itself attached to a kitchen that looked organized in a particularly chaotic way. He wondered if Peter used it himself, or if everything was just magic.

…Or maybe the spiders cooked?

Flash laughed to himself at the mental image of a spider wielding a spatula.

There was a library, full of books and sunlight and lots of cushions and chairs. Flash lingered here, running his fingers over the spines of some books…

But he left the library for later, to peek into the solarium, and the sitting room it was half-attached to…

And, oh.

"What!"

There was a small home gym. Not nearly as impressive as anything in a 21st century gym, but there were weights and benches, and places to put things away, and a small separation that led into a windowed room with a skylight, and a small _pool_. Plants filled the room, as well, and there were places to sit, and the water itself sparkled in the sunlight that came through the windows. The pool was longer than it was wide, quite narrow in fact.

Flash eyeballed it.

Maybe five feet deep the whole length.

A few of the windows were doors, just like in the solarium and the smoking room, and one of them was open to the garden with a breeze blowing through.

Flash would have to spend some time here, later.

Upstairs was mostly bedrooms.

Most of them, empty. Obviously there was the master bedroom suite, with Peter's room at the end of the hall, and Flash's connected to it. There were a few smaller bedrooms, furnished for guests. And there were a few that were in quite a state.

It looked like someone had remodeled two bedrooms that stood beside each other, joining them—and the resulting space seemed equal parts workshop, tailor, and private library, with books strewn all over the place and various mechanical doo-dads, and a sewing area with piles of fabric and what looked like a project-in-progress laid out on a wooden table.

" _Boo_."

Flash jumped so bad he nearly fell over.

"Oh my God, don't do that—" He pressed his hand to his pounding chest as Peter laughed, in the hallway right behind him. "You're _awful!_ "

Peter composed himself, grinning with all his sharp teeth on display, and said, "That's what you get for snooping."

"Am I snooping?" Flash looked at him incredulously. "I was under the impression that I lived here, now."

He got a shrug from Peter, who came into the room and picked up one of his fallen books to tidy away onto a shelf. "I guess you do." He straightened a sewing mannequin shoved into a corner, and leaned against a window by one of the workbenches. "There's nothing in here worth keeping secret anyway." He waved his hand toward the wooden table. "Unless you count cobbling shoes."

Flash made a face, half-smiling. "You make your own shoes?"

"Who else is gonna do it?" Peter stuck one of his many legs out in an unsettlingly comical fashion. "The spiders?"

Fair enough.

But…

"I don't know, I just thought maybe you magicked them like everything else." Flash picked up one of the half-finished leather shoes from the sewing table. It was two-toned in silvery tan and white, and missing a sole. "Do you make _all_ of your clothes?"

Peter nodded, gazing out the window, and said, "For the most part." He turned to face Flash more fully, gaze focusing on him. "Mostly just the pants and shoes. Underwear. Things that won't fit like normal."

"But the shirts are fine?" Flash set the shoe down.

"Exactly." Peter tugged at his sleeve with a crooked smile. "I'm shaped enough like a man I don't need new jackets, but my robes need to be shortened, for example. So I don't get tangled up in them."

Flash considered him, and wondered whether his socks were all handmade too, or if those fit pretty well with only minor modifications.

That, and…

"Why don't you just… not wear clothes?"

Peter snorted. "I considered it."

He had?

Of _course_ he had.

"I usually sleep naked." Peter shifted away from the window, his feet each tap-tap-tapping in their peculiar gait as he moved over to the workshop area. "But putting on clothes helps me feel…" He gestured in a circular motion as he searched for the right word. "Real?"

Flash nodded. He could understand that. Sometimes something as simple as putting on a fresh pair of pants helped him feel a little more like a person, too.

He sat at the bench by the table and watched Peter fiddle with some gizmo. "It seems hot, though."

Peter shrugged. He turned a lever on the thing in his hand, and it clicked satisfyingly. He looked over his shoulder at Flash.

"It doesn't really bother me." He looked back to his trinkets. "Anyway, the summer clothes are lightweight enough, aren't they?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Flash hooked a foot around his ankle where he sat.

They fell into a strange sort of quiet, which wasn't entirely uncomfortable—though Peter did mumble to himself as he fiddled with things, his glasses glinting as he peered close. It seemed he never stopped talking, even when there was no conversation to be had, even when it was just to himself. Flash didn't mind too much. And he couldn't really blame Peter. After all, who knew how long he'd gone without anyone else to talk to?

Aside from Norman Osborn, of course.

Flash watched Peter work a while longer.

✧✧✧

Peter seemed to have an awful lot of photos, all over the house. Each and every one was carefully framed, some hung on walls and some set up on tables or mantelpieces. Some of the frames were very fancy, but some of them looked handmade as though Peter had used fallen branches or something to carve out pieces to be put together. One or two even looked to be made from woven rose canes, thorns and all.

A good chunk of the photographs showed people.

At least half of them were landscapes, including flowers in the garden and birds and large bugs. Some were of shadowy interiors, wafting curtains…

Flash even saw one of Mr. Osborn—a black silhouette in a bright window.

He trailed his fingers over the wallpaper as he looked at the eclectic mix of natural scenery and people in various scenarios. Some portraits, some blurry with movement and laughter, some bright and cheerful and some more somber. At least one a funeral. A few of the faces tugged at Flash in this small, sharp way, like he should have known them… but they were just strangers.

And one…

"Oh."

Flash paused and looked over his shoulder almost as if he might be caught—he took a photo off the wall to touch the glass. It showed two young men, probably in their early twenties. One spindly and slender with hair like Norman's and a pointy face hidden by a cloth facemask. He was being carried by a much larger boy and that was what had Flash so…

Well, it was him.

Circa the years leading up to 1920.

At least, he thought so. It _looked_ like him.

Solid, laughing, with curly hair oiled back under a wool cap, and a work shirt tucked into baggy knickers. The boy on his back was dressed similarly but the way his clothes fit it was easy to see the class difference. The skinny boy looked like he was ready to go golfing despite his mask, with a light sweater matched to his socks, while this antique version of Flash looked like he was ready to haul a bag of dirt out of a truck.

Though he wouldn't have admitted it, Flash's fingers trembled a little as he turned the frame over to get the photo out. It was embarrassing, but he felt shaken to the very core—surely it must have been some relative, though? An ancestor. It wasn't Flash. And that was… Norman Osborn's great, great, great-grandfather?

The silvery black and white photo had a note in ink written on the pale back.

 _Harry and Flash, May 1918_.

He'd half-expected it to say _Norman_ , and a wave of relief soaked through him.

He didn't know who Harry was, but that was better in some ways.

Still…

Still, the fact that this was apparently _him_. Not just some predecessor after whom he'd been named but _Flash_ himself… There was no way the name could be coincidental. He'd chosen it himself.

"Be careful with that."

Flash flinched and turned on Peter with a glower. "Can you _please_ stop sneaking up on me?!"

Peter tilted his head.

He held his hand out, gesturing for Flash to hand the photo over—demanding, and uncharacteristically quiet. Carefully, he slipped it back into the picture frame, and made sure it was aligned just right before hanging it back where Flash had taken it from.

For a few seconds, Peter stood there, just looking at it.

Flash watched him.

Finally… Peter asked, "It's strange, isn't it?"

He tapped a claw-like nail against the edge of the frame, and straightened another nearby picture almost without a thought. "Everything used to be so loud. I was so used to being surrounded by people." He let his spidery hand linger over another photo, of two pretty girls in breezy dresses. "And then the influenza epidemic hit. And you went off to join the army." He smiled bitterly. "Losing half the people you ever knew in the span of a few years, it's—" His expression turned serious again, and he looked at Flash with all eight of his dark, intense eyes. "I missed you."

Flash didn't know how to respond to that.

Suddenly it felt like he'd been heaped with a pile of expectations written in a language he didn't even know.

"I know. I know. You're not him." Peter sighed and reached up to press a knuckle to his forehead, right between his eyes. "But I feel… It's been a long time. It's nice to have someone to talk to, again. It's nice to see you alive, again. I couldn't—" He took a deep breath, turning away from Flash slightly as if to hide his face. "I'm sorry."

Flash swallowed, something tight in his throat and hot in his face, but he shook his head. "No, it—" He stuck his hands in his pockets, a little awkwardly. "It's fine." He needed a break, though. He needed to process this.

"I'm gonna… go lay down." Flash pointed his thumb over his shoulder, and before Peter could answer, he turned away.

✧✧✧

Dinner that night wasn't nearly so fancy as the night before, though it was still nicer than Flash's usual. Peter wore a smoking jacket instead of a tuxedo, and Flash stuck with his day clothes, though he surrendered to the jacket and waistcoat in an effort to look a _little_ nicer.

The atmosphere felt almost electric, and Flash had this itch like it might storm as the evening became that deep summer blue, the sun still hours from setting. But all was calm, and Peter—though slightly pensive—still managed to talk quite a lot. And slowly… the electric feeling under Flash's skin faded, and he smiled as Peter joked with him, and things began to feel comfortable again.

Less of a ghost hanging over them.

They moved to one of the sitting rooms after dinner, to lounge and chat, drinking mineral water and chilled fruit juice—Peter refrained from anything alcoholic this time.

"I wanted to apologize for earlier…"

Flash raised his eyebrows, as Peter clinked his glass full of ice, swirling it around distractedly.

"No." Sure, it had been a lot to take in, and sure, Flash barely knew Peter… But if Flash had been in the same position he didn't know that he would have been able to keep his cool for even the first hour. "Don’t apologize."

Each pair of Peter's eyes seemed almost empty. Avoidant, and black. "I just don't want you to feel pressured to be nice to me." He shrugged, and took a sip, carefully maneuvering around his strangely split mouth. "I don't like pity, and I don't like obligation."

Flash hesitated with his glass of seltzer and strawberry syrup halfway to his mouth. "No, it's—I really like talking to you, actually."

Peter focused on him at once in a way both disturbing and comical. Surprised, in the way only an eight-legged, eight-eyed spider-man could be. "After a day and a half? You barely _know_ me."

"So?" Flash brandished his drink, making himself a little more comfortable in his seat. "I still like talking to you!" He kicked his feet out, crossing them at the ankles, and added, "Anyway, you're not the only one who was lonely."

Peter snorted. "Were you _also_ isolated for ten years with minimal human contact?"

" _Fine_ , maybe not as lonely as you." Flash huffed, but he smiled, and tilted his head as he looked at Peter.

He was comfortable, reclining in his seat with his mouth pleasantly sweet and his body a little sleepy as the night solidified outside. And Peter was… well, he was a giant spider. But there was something bright in his eight black eyes as he grinned at Flash. All sharp teeth but no threat in them. Not for the moment, anyway. Not right then.

"Hey…" Flash set his drink aside and rolled his shoulders. "I'm feeling kind of tired."

Peter nodded. "Of course. I'll see you in the morning."

Flash was already halfway out the door but he nodded with a worn-out smile. "Tomorrow."

✧✧✧

Peter had been joking when he told Flash he would only watch him sleep when he was lonely.

But the day had stirred up some long-buried grief and he couldn't sleep. So he washed his face, and quietly opened the bathroom door into Flash's bedroom, dark and cooling with the window ushering in a brisk breeze through the gauzy curtains.

Quietly, Peter left the door to the bathroom ajar and made his way across the room, parting the bed hangings to look down at Flash.

Flash lay half-tangled in his sheets, his nightshirt rucked up and one long, bare leg sticking out from under the covers. His arms were askew, and his hair lay in messy waves across his pillowcase. The moonlight didn't quite reach his bed, but Peter had good night vision, even if he didn’t have good eyesight, and he could see the silvered shape of Flash's sleeping form nearly as well as if it were day.

Peter reached down to brush a stray lock of hair from Flash's forehead. Lingered, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

To see his face again, soft with sleep…

Peter left Flash's room with an ache in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy long time no post  
> Continuing my usual aka writing fairy tale adaptations 😅  
> long story short, i dropped all my WIPs back in july because of a health crisis and while it's still ongoing it's more manageable now and i've been writing again in little bits.  
> I've had a big chunk of this fic written for a while (in fact, I started it in April lol) just with the last part unfinished, and while i haven't finished it yet i thought I'd at least post the first chapter. 👌  
> Hope everyone has had an alright holiday, considering the circumstances, and may 2021 not suck so much 🤞  
> To health, prosperity, etc.
> 
> and here's to #PeterFlash2021?
> 
> oh and here are some sketches to get an idea of how spider-centaur peter looks:  
>   
> 
> 
> oh, also, this isn't based on noir spidey or anything like that, the 1910s and 20s are just the time period I picked for whatever reason I've forgotten. God. April feels like years ago.
> 
> oh  
> also again  
> White Rock sparkling mineral water featuring an image of Psyche on the label as a fitting nod to Eros and Psyche which has influenced aspects of this fic as well as being a kind of Beauty & the Beast precursor  
> just like  
> FYI  
>   
> This label is I think a 70s recreation of the original logo, but you can find actual antique examples that are mostly intact.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer moves steadily onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some brief mentions of Flash's alcoholism and minor slipping but nothing particularly strong, certainly not on par with various comic plots. there's a time and a place for that but i'm not interested in writing flash's thousandth backslide rn. but sometimes you slip, you know?
> 
> And a brief suicide mention, though again, not in deep detail.
> 
> OH also some Historical Language wrt being gay lmfao--it's only one line but I thought I'd address the fact that Peter asks Flash if he's a fairy. (spoiler? lol)  
> More on the historical context of that in the end notes.

✧ _July_ ✧

A familiar rumble broke the quiet atmosphere.

The house became a flurry of activity—now that Flash knew where to look. Spiders moving in lines, the kitchen an autonomous force straight out of some kind of Disney movie, every corner of the little red brick manor tidying itself. The sound of Norman's greeting scant moments later echoed from the front of the house, as Flash busied himself dressing in that same midnight blue tuxedo as his first night here.

He dawdled a while in the bathroom, fussing with his hair, absolutely putting off the inevitable, as well as thinking how much like the old photos he looked when he oiled his hair back.

Maybe he could style it differently.

Make it less like looking in the mirror every time he walked down the hallway and glimpsed an old photo of a boy with his face. So young, too. Like looking at his high school yearbook, but without all the cajoling notes and heartfelt but ultimately unfulfilled promises to keep in touch.

It wasn't that he didn't want to interact with other people—the idea was welcome, in fact. As welcome as it was impossible.

But here, now?

Osborn?

A dull weight bit at his insides; nerves, wondering what might happen, considering the last time.

He just had to make sure they never left Peter's sight.

When had he become so _nervous_?

He could take care of himself. He knew self-defense. He was tall, and strong, and physically fit.

But Norman Osborn made him nervous.

Like he was young again, waiting for his old man's good day to come to an abrupt end.

Flash took a breath and left his room.

The day had been hot, but as evening approached it began to cool, and a breeze drifted through the open windows with the late evening sun hanging golden and low. Both Peter and Norman turned their heads to look at him as he slipped through the doorway, and for a moment he froze—pinned down like a butterfly for mounting.

But he shook himself as Norman said, "Nice to see you again… You'll have to forgive me, I don't recall your name."

"…Flash."

"Ah, yes." Norman squeezed Flash's hand. "The noun." His smile was tight and cordial, but his eyes drilled deep. His grip was tight and a brief jolt of unease zipped through Flash, the briefest fear that Norman wouldn't let him go.

As if he'd read Flash's mind, Norman let his hand free. Flash held it to his chest a moment, and glanced at Peter, who stared at both of them sidelong. (Or at least, Flash thought so. It was hard to tell.)

Flash shuddered, but he moved closer to Peter as Norman seated himself beside a window. Rather the beast in form than the beast in thought. Though, really, Peter was hardly a beast. Sure, he had eight legs and eight eyes and a big, hairy spider-body, but was that so bad?

"What do you want tonight?" Peter spared Flash his attention as he mixed himself a cocktail of crème de menthe, triple sec, and fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Ungarnished and colorless. It smelled like the dentist. "Boylan's?"

Turning under Norman's gaze from across the room, Flash leaned into Peter's space and reached for one of the bottles in the cabinet. He didn't know what it was going to be, just reached, and if Peter'd had eyebrows he probably would have raised them, judging by the expression his face was attempting to make. Flash shot him an awkward half-formed smile, with a shrug.

Whiskey.

"Knows what I like, I guess." Flash almost laughed. He stared down at the bottle and set it down, mouth dry.

Peter took it, and with his movements all materialization and sleight of hand he cut it with seltzer, grenadine and ice, in a tall glass. Diluted to the point of barely being whiskey anymore. He slid it into Flash's hand with a meaningful look, and Flash turned his face away.

"An Irish Rose." Peter moved so he could get as close to Flash as he would allow, and Flash met his eyes. Peter seemed torn between smiling and something else. Something soft. "Like you."

Flash wrinkled his nose, but he grinned even as he ducked his head. "Weirdo."

" _There's_ a smile." Peter reached up to knock Flash's chin with his bristly knuckle. He lowered his voice further. "You go out to the garden." He nodded toward Norman, and when Flash glanced past Peter, Norman smiled all oily and sweet at him. "Go."

Flash didn't need to be encouraged any further. He took his drink and he was out of the house in seconds.

It was nice out, just before sunset. The midsummer roses were at their height, in red with splashes of white here and there, and massive spreads of heavily nodding apricot-colored blossoms climbing up whatever they could reach. Sprigs of lavender popped up where it would, and baby's breath and forget-me-nots carpeted their ankles. It was like a fairytale, many of the rose bushes taller than a man, wafting powerful perfume through the air.

Flash knocked back a good portion of his drink, far sweeter than something he would have mixed himself, and mostly bubbles beside that. He made his way over to the pond and set his glass down. A moment—he shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket, tossing it aside and rolling his sleeves up. He kicked his shoes off, and rolled his pants up to the knee, unfastening his sock garters to peel off his sheer half-hose. He picked his drink up and sat on the edge of the pond, dangling his feet into the cold water.

He couldn't help feeling a little pathetic.

Like a little boy saying, "Look how tough I am, drinking and running away."

High school all over again.

Flash sighed and curled his toes in the water as he sipped his drink, the ice inside making it cold and damp in his fingers. He grimaced. Maybe the worst version of a (dirty) Shirley Temple he'd ever had. So of course, rather than dump it out, he drained it in one go, all those years of practice put to use. The bloom of cold in his chest was a welcome sensation.

When he set his glass down, it clinked, and there was a glass bottle of plain ginger ale waiting for him on the flat stone.

He smiled.

✧✧✧

Flash ate dinner alone by the pond, lit by the garden lamps. His food served itself, and a few spiders sat nearby, seemingly watching him. Slightly unsettling, but preferable to Norman Osborn doing the same. He only kept his feet in the water for a little bit, eventually shivering as the night darkened and cooled just enough to be comfortable.

When he finished, he lay on his back in the grass nearby to look up at the stars.

He didn't know any constellations, aside from the big and little dippers, but the stars were bright and shimmering and beautiful. The sort of thing people wrote poems about. Mythic rivers, velvet studded with gemstones. The great firmament…

"It's stunning, isn't it?"

Flash caught his surprise in his chest and made a face for a moment. But he looked at Peter's silhouette, backlit by the garden and the manor and the fireflies. "Yeah." He looked back up, the hammering in his chest subsiding as he let a slow breath out. "Yeah, it's amazing."

Peter settled beside him. "I struggle with dates. Remind me when your birthday is."

"Uh—" Flash shifted a little to make room. It was still a little weird the way Peter said things like that. _Remind me_. Knowledge from an entirely different reality, but it aligned so well he never actually needed to ask. But he always did, anyway. "June 21st. Why?"

"What?" Peter tilted his head. "Why didn't you bring it up the other week?"

Flash hesitated, and shrugged. "I didn't think it mattered." He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. "It's never been important."

"Well…" Something brushed his hand, and Flash stiffened before realizing it was just Peter, raising their hands together to point up at the sky. "Up there…" He made a claw-snapping motion with Flash's hand, and Flash laughed despite himself. "That's Cancer." He moved Flash's hand lower. "And down there, that's part of Scorpius. That's me. How old are you now? I'm twenty-nine."

"Thirty." Flash wrinkled his nose. "You're a Scorpio." Flash turned his head to look at Peter, as deadpan as he could muster. "As in, the scorpion. As in…"

Peter sighed in defeat. "Yes."

Flash laughed out loud. "You're a _bug!_ "

"Well aware." He let Flash's hand go and leaned away. "You know crabs are arthropods too, though."

" _Whaaat_?" Flash rolled onto his side to eyeball Peter's silhouette. "You made that up."

Peter laughed, quiet and soft. "Never."

Thinking about it, it made sense. Of course crabs were bugs! With all those legs and the shell and the weird little mouths and the weird little eyes… But it was something Flash had never really thought about—Peter seemed to bring that out in him a lot. Small thoughts he might not have realized otherwise.

"I had no idea…" Flash stared at Peter in the moonlit, firefly-flecked darkness. "Where do you learn all this stuff?"

Peter was silent a moment.

But just as Flash thought maybe he'd said the wrong thing, Peter spoke. "Ten years is a long time to be alone." He wasn't looking at Flash, his head turned toward the orchard. "A lot of opportunities to learn." He tilted his head. "For a while, for the first year, Norman brought me gifts. I think he thought he could—he could—" Peter cleared his throat, as if suddenly hoarse. "Doesn't matter. Some of the books in the library are from after—after I came here. After 1920." He huffed. "Most of them are older, though. Most of them, I've read more than once."

Flash sat up. He didn't quite know what to do, so he just said, "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay." Peter's legs unfolded and he shifted to his feet. "Not every day you get the opportunity to teach yourself how to grow an orchard." He stood staring out at nowhere in particular. "Or how to make eight-legged pants."

Still… there was something sad in his demeanor.

Of course there was.

A decade of loneliness would make anyone sad.

✧✧✧

When Flash went to his bedroom for the night, Norman long-since shut away in his own guest suite, Peter saw him off with a quiet, "Happy birthday."

Flash shook his head, but his chest felt warm. Even if it was a week or two late judging by the old-fashioned calendar in his room, it was nice to hear. Nice to be disconnected from the usual Father's Day paraphernalia and expectations. Take a card to his father's grave. Pretend he'd been someone to love and not a cop whose upstanding façade fell away behind closed doors and body armor alike.

But this was just Peter—

Well, Norman was in the house too.

But it wasn't Father's Day, and it wasn't technically Flash's birthday either, and there were no expectations to uphold.

Just a belated "Happy birthday," and a quiet room full of soft fabrics and beautiful wooden fixtures.

Flash got himself a glass of water from the little drink station by the center table, and sat a moment just breathing slow and calm.

Maybe he felt a little bit guilty.

Missed his mom and his sister, a little bit. And Liz.

Felt a little nervous, even.

But mostly he felt relieved.

✧✧✧

Flash woke earlier than usual the next morning, as the birds sang in the morning. Quiet, and clear, and soft, and lonely. He lay there awake, unusually tense for no reason in particular, as the dawn approached and finally broke. The house creaked gently, the morning warmed, and if Flash listened carefully he could hear footsteps in the hallway and a low voice. Two low voices, and suddenly he felt like a child again, listening to his parents talking when he was supposed to be asleep—a conversation which would inevitably lead to an explosion of shouting.

No such explosion came.

His body relaxed.

Footsteps passed by and receded.

A soft knock came at the door.

Flash pretended to be asleep, and didn't answer.

A few moments passed, almost eternal, and Peter's familiar footsteps receded as well, tapping in their strange gait.

✧✧✧

Peter fumed silently as he trimmed a rose bush. He let them grow with wild abandon any which way they would, but he still maintained the blossoms and leaves so that they would keep blooming as vigorously as he could get them to.

It was meditative, to find the dead heads and cleanly remove them.

This despite the fact that July found very few to actually maintain, but there were still some withered things to trim here and there. Not to mention the climbing roses painting the side of the house, and the hedges pushed up against the gates and framing certain parts of the garden in all their butterfly-like shades of coral and pink. Plenty to do with his hands on an early summer morning.

The longer he worked, as the sun rose, the calmer he became.

Norman Osborn…

The metaphorical thorn in his side.

Making clear to Peter how obvious his guarding of Flash was. Making it clear that he would not give up so easily.

He was just biding his time.

Waiting for his moment.

Peter ripped a weed from the ground with particular viciousness.

Flash belonged to _him_ , and he would never loosen that grip.

✧✧✧

Flash left his room much earlier than usual that morning, unable to fall back asleep, and found Peter in the breakfast room with a half-eaten bagel, staring pensively into space. There was the briefest flicker, in his many pairs of eyes, but Peter didn't pay Flash any mind other than that. He shifted slightly, and only resumed staring, deep in thought. Brooding. Not melancholic, but not quite in the realm of anger either. Just… serious.

If Flash didn't know any better, he might have said Peter hadn't even noticed his presence, but he knew that wasn't the case. Peter noticed everything, down to the tiniest speck of dust.

Regardless, the atmosphere didn't make for great conversation, so Flash just ate his corn flakes in silence.

Peter remained nearly as still as a statue, hardly moving.

Only when Flash stood to leave, did he say anything—

"You still read Rilke?"

 _Still_.

Flash hesitated in the doorway. He tilted his head, but he nodded. "…Yeah."

Peter stared at nothing in particular, almost glowering with thought, but his voice was soft as he said, "I set out some books you might like, last night. In the library." Finally, he looked at Flash, leaning back from the table. Each pair of eyes dark and deep, each slippered foot moving in arrangement. "And I labeled the different sections so it's easier for you to find what you're looking for."

"Oh." Flash blinked. "Thank you."

Peter nodded stiffly.

✧✧✧

Later, Flash found a little stack of books waiting for him next to a comfy looking chair in the library, nestled against a window through which the sunlight streamed pleasantly. Fairy tales, poetry, that kind of thing. They were all a little bit dusty, previously stashed away in their various sections. It seemed Peter had more of a taste for the mechanical, scientific, biological, philosophical… Poring over dry texts, staring at the page through his big round glasses.

He'd been doing just that earlier, in a corner of the library, when Flash finally came in around noon. But he'd retreated to his office now, leaving Flash to his books with only the company of the dust and occasional spiders.

Flash picked an illustrated book of compiled Roman myths and tales, from a few different authors and some removed from their original context. The pages were full of beautifully delicate lines and colors and he found himself engrossed entirely, slowly absorbing each story even as he occasionally tripped over some of the more meandering sentences.

So many stories of abduction, transformation, secret lovers in the night…

Something in Flash's chest ached, as he ran his finger over the words to keep from getting lost.

The chime of a clock shook him from his focus, and he looked up with a frown.

Flash's stomach grumbled.

With a sigh, he marked his place, and as he stood he stretched his arms over his head as far as they would go with a little whine. He shook his hands out and turned to the doorway, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

"For the love of _Christ_ —"

Peter laughed; a quiet, low sound.

"I am _begging_ you, Peter." Flash took a deep breath and rubbed his face. "You're like a ghost."

Peter shrugged. "I can't help it."

Of _course_ he couldn't.

"And I didn't want to interrupt you." He folded his arms with an almost fond looking smile, his eight eyes squinting together. He seemed to be in a much better mood, now. "You looked so focused."

Flash planted his hands on his hips.

But he couldn't be particularly annoyed.

"Fine, so you were being nice." He raised his chin. "Did you wanna talk to me about something?"

Peter nodded in the general direction of the back of the house. "Wanted to ask if you'd like to have an afternoon picnic with me."

A _picnic_?

Flash glanced over to the window, at the bright sun and the green plants, as his stomach grumbled again.

He grinned. "Sure."

The weather outside was beautiful, edging past four o'clock; clear but for a few soft, fluffy clouds, with a gentle breeze barely rustling the bushes and flowers. Peter carried a basket on one arm and a blanket under the other, and Flash followed a few feet behind him.

He smiled, watching Peter lay the blanket out on the lawn between some of the fruit trees just past the pond.

"You like coffee, right?" Peter looked up at him as he settled with his legs folded underneath him.

Flash raised his eyebrows, but he joined Peter with a, "Yeah? Why?"

Peter looked relieved, and flipped open the basket he'd brought with them. "Oh, good, I thought so. I had the kitchen make some coffee icebox cake but then I worried you might not like it—"

He paused.

"I guess that was silly."

Flash felt his mouth twitch up. "A little bit." He peered into the basket, and pulled out the cake in question, the perfect size for two people. It looked just right. "I promise I won't hate it."

"Good." Peter grabbed a fork. "I'd hate to waste it."

Together they ate not just the coffee icebox cake—a little fancy, with lady fingers soaked in espresso, and chilled chocolate pudding and fresh berries—but also some fresh bagels that didn't _quite_ live up to the ones Flash normally bought on the way to work, but were almost as good with their generous heapings of soft cream cheese and smoked salmon and sliced cucumber.

There was scarcely a crumb left between them by the end of lunch, and Flash lay down halfway on the blanket and halfway on the grass with his eyes shaded under his arm.

The air smelled sweet, and the sunlight was warm, and everything felt… good. Right.

"What were you brooding about this morning?" Flash peeked over at Peter, who lay on his side with his back to Flash like a big, weird cat, his legs stretched away from his body in a tangle.

Peter lifted his head, twisting to look over his shoulder. "Who, me?"

Flash huffed. "No, I was talking to a bug." He rubbed his face and added, "Yes, you."

For a moment, Peter stared at him in silence. He looked away. "Nothing."

"Uh-huh." Flash was not amused. He'd been raised by a liar, he'd spent most of his adolescence lying both to others and to himself. He knew a lie when he heard one. "Sure."

Peter sighed. "Really, Flash." He pushed himself upright, adjusting all his sharp limbs and his grass-wrinkled suit. "It doesn't matter." He offered a smile, with his strange mouth. "I'm fine now."

No way did Flash believe him.

But he smiled back, "Okay, fine." He turned onto his side, looking over at Peter with all his thoughts whirling around. What could have had Peter so dark, so silent? Why did he refuse to even admit he had been in a bad mood? But his thoughts started to settle, finally. "Be like that."

Peter reached for his hat, where it had fallen to the side as he lounged. "Oh, I will." He set his had firmly on his head and shot Flash an exaggeratedly charming grin.

Flash rolled his eyes, but he laughed.

✧✧✧

The week grew hotter, the season now firmly settled into summer, and Flash found himself in the pool nearly every day.

With sheer fabric shading the windows, and the early afternoon sun at such an angle that it only gently lit the room, Flash let himself lounge in the cool pool water, surrounded by potted plants and the quiet sound of music.

He daydreamed, and daydreams led to dwelling.

Dwelling on his family, on what few friends he had, wondering how they were doing. Dwelling on his strangely pleasant imprisonment with Peter (maybe he should have been more concerned about how okay he was with being trapped here). On the constellations and how Peter had taken his hand to point them out, attentive to his interest. How lonely they both were. How the weeks seemed to go by sometimes so slow, but sometimes so quickly, with Peter to bide the time.

About the photos of another version of himself, youthful and frozen in time.

Flash was jostled out of his thoughts by the sound of Peter's voice—

"Mind if I join you?"

He stood on the threshold between the pool and the gym, one hand on the doorframe, dressed in an old fashioned woolen swimsuit just like the one Flash wore—but where Flash's was bright red and white striped, Peter's was simple black, and tailored to his strangely shaped hips. Or was it a groin?

…Did Peter _have_ anything down there?

Flash crossed his arms on the side of the small pool and smiled at Peter, pushing that question aside for another. "Can spiders even swim?"

Peter huffed but some lingering tension seemed to bleed from his shoulders and he made his way over, teasing, "Can a donkey?" He leaned halfway over the edge of the pool just before entering and added, "That's you, by the way."

He plopped into the water, sending a little wave out that lapped at Flash's sides.

When Peter resurfaced, Flash made a show of being offended and asked, "Did you just call me an ass?"

"In my defense," Peter mirrored Flash's posture, folding his arms at the edge of the pool, along the carefully placed tiles. In the water like this, he almost looked like a regular human, albeit with some unique features. "I figured that would go right over your big, empty head."

Flash raised his eyebrows. " _Wow_."

Peter's face crinkled with his amusement.

Flash rolled his eyes and gave Peter a little shove—though he hardly budged, and the feeling of his hair as it shed water was strange against Flash's skin. But… it wasn't so bad. Flash grinned at Peter. "You're _mean_."

Peter looked down at his shoulder thoughtfully, and back up at Flash. He tilted his head, with this small, bemused sort of smile at the corners of his mouth. " _Am_ I mean?" He reached up, hesitating just a moment as if checking to see if Flash was frightened of him—he wasn't—and tugged on a loose lock of Flash's hair. "Or am I just pulling your pigtails?"

What a dork.

"I don't _have_ pigtails." Flash flicked his hair out of his eyes, letting his cheek rest on his folded arms. He felt warm, with the cool water a bright contrast against his skin, and he couldn't stop smiling. "You're still mean."

Peter hummed, but he didn't try to disagree. "Maybe…" He shifted closer so their shoulders brushed.

That was all. They stood beside each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. Flash felt more settled, with the quiet birdsong from outside and the gentle rustle of the potted plants in the summer breeze, through the open windows. He looked out at the blue sky, Peter beside him, and tried not to think too hard about the spots their bodies touched.

Belatedly, he realized Peter was saying something.

"Sorry, what?" Flash turned his attention to Peter's words.

Peter sighed, but he seemed more amused than annoyed. "I _said_ , I'm glad you’re here." He didn't look away, intense as always. "And I want to kiss you."

Oh.

"Uh." Flash reached to rub the back of his neck, with an awkward laugh. "Wow—" He made a face, burning hot suddenly. "For real?"

It wasn't that Peter wasn't charming, or funny, or even good-looking, or that he didn't make Flash's chest feel all funny when they were this close together, it was just…

He'd never been good at flirting, and he didn't know Peter that well, and he was stuck with him all the time so naturally he'd feel something but that didn't mean it was _real_ , and—

"Is that okay?" Round black eyes boring into him.

Such a simple question. But… Flash opened his mouth as he considered how to answer, and what came out was, "I don't know."

It wasn't that he didn't want to… now that he'd been confronted by the prospect, he couldn't deny the appeal. Peter wasn't terribly hideous underneath the peculiarities, and he had a nice physique, and strong hands…

But…

"Do you actually want to kiss _me_ …?" Flash bit his lip. "Like, me, right here?"

Peter laughed, clearly somewhat thrown off by the question. "Who else could I mean?"

"The other me."

 _1918_.

"The one you knew before."

Peter went solemn.

Flash looked away.

But he couldn't help adding, "You never told me what happened…"

It was quiet, almost silent, aside from the rustling trees, and the sunlight seemed to dim slightly. A passing cloud, blocking its brightness. Flash looked back at Peter, who seemed to be thinking something over, deep in his head.

He was quiet so long, Flash thought he might not say anything at all.

But…

"The you I used to know turned 18 and enlisted in the army." Peter looked down at his hands. "A few months later the war was over, and you…" He let out a slow breath, and shook his head, heavy with remembering. "You were six feet underground, overseas."

Flash frowned. "How did I—he—that version of me…?"

"Influenza." Peter sighed, staring down at the tiles framing the pool, expression inscrutable. "You caught the grip in a military hospital in France." He huffed. "Or I guess the grip caught you." He lifted a hand to make a loose fist. He squeezed tight. "And it didn't let go."

The birds had gone silent outside.

"Why was past-me in the hospital?" Stupid question, but it was all he could think of to say.

Peter shrugged. "Take your pick." 

"You don't know?"

Peter shook his head. "Everything was chaos." He stepped away from Flash, toward the pool steps, turning his back. "Honestly?" He glanced over his shoulder as he stepped out of the water, streams cascading from his many limbs. "I only found out because your sister knew a friend of a friend."

He left Flash with that, disappearing into the adjoined gym.

✧✧✧

Flash's questions had left Peter shaken, in a way he hadn't been in a while.

Who did he really want to kiss? Who did he really love? And dredging up all these old memories. How did he die? What happened?

Peter sat at his work table staring blankly down at the camera before him. Getting old now, but kept meticulously in working order, even if only to occasionally photograph a bird on a branch or a black-and-white day. He'd made a lot of memories with this thing. A lot of old memories, a lot of lingering memories, hung all over the walls of the hallways where he could always have them and always escape them when it all became too much to bear.

When he tried to remember Flash—the first one—his head only conjured hazy recollections, half-faded by time and loneliness.

A few sharp moments.

The time they had fought over—over what? Over something stupid. All Peter could remember was saying something he regretted, and the hurt Flash had immediately covered up with his own retaliation.

Another, more positive moment preserved like a cracked glass—Flash, up in a tree, reciting poetry far too loudly, to the others lounging below. Shaking the branches as he read the final lines at the top of his lungs, trading lines with Mary Jane—

Peter could never remember the poem but Flash laughed the whole time, showering them with leaves.

And, simpler…

Telling Flash to hold his damn head still so Peter could get a good picture of him and Harry, just weeks before Flash's 18th birthday, almost the last time Peter would ever see him again. What had he called them? A couple of red-headed bastards?

Peter picked his camera up and pointed it at himself for the first time in ten years.

Maybe it was time to make some new memories.

✧✧✧

A few days passed, and Flashed debated cutting his hair off in the bathroom mirror.

He decided against it and wound up standing in the hallway staring at the photos on the wall instead.

A lot of strangers. A few vaguely familiar, a nagging in the back of his thoughts. A few he could name. Liz Allan, for one. One of his only friends. He hoped she was doing okay, and wondered if she missed him. Deep inside, he thought she probably didn't care, but deeper still he knew that was unfair and she was probably worried.

He stared at the pictures as if he could read them like the words on a page. Like he could look at that 20th century boy and be imbued with his experience, filling in an empty book with information.

 _Click_.

"Don't move."

Flash didn't even flinch at Peter's voice from a few feet away. He smiled, though, and raised his eyebrows as he looked over at Peter.

"What are you doing?"

Holding what Flash assumed was a camera, though it was very different from anything he'd ever used.

"Making memories." Peter lowered his odd old camera and smiled at Flash. "My uncle bought me this camera for my thirteenth birthday. They stopped making them during the war." He held it up again, steady and pointed at Flash. "Now you tell me something about you."

Flash let out a laugh, caught by surprise, just as Peter took another photo. "What is this?" He gestured at Peter. "Are we trading trivia?"

"Yep."

Careful to hold very still this time, Flash asked, "Why?"

Peter sighed and let his camera down, leveling Flash with an unamused look. "Is this how you respond every time someone wants to know more about you?" He gestured toward Flash, one hand free. "I want to know you better. I want to be your friend."

Oh.

"Um." Flash stuck his hands in his pockets, and rocked on his feet. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Flash huffed, glancing down at the floor. "Well, _everything_ is a lot." He raised his head to look at Peter. "I'm Flash Thompson, I'm thirty years old, I'm an alcoholic." He let himself grin widely. "And I like long walks on the beach."

Peter stared at him, clearly bewildered.

Flash laughed.

✧✧✧

Downstairs in the sitting room, Peter sat on one of the benches he liked to use as a chair, while Flash sat by an open window.

It had been rainy the past few days, ever since Peter told Flash he wanted to kiss him, but now there was a watery clarity to the still-cool air as the sun split the clouds and sparkled on the faint mist. Sun showers, as Flash talked and Peter listened with his camera in his hands.

"I almost joined the army, too, you know?" Flash closed his eyes. He remembered how recruiters had come to his high school, how they'd harped on about heroism, adventure, free tuition. How he'd been drawn in by that for a short time, almost convinced it was all true. "Instead, I almost jumped off a bridge." He smiled, a little wry, and peeked open one eye to look at Peter. "The army wouldn't have saved me, but an off-duty nursing volunteer did, so... I became an EMT instead."

Peter set his camera down for a moment to say, "You tried to kill yourself?"

Flash shrugged. "Almost." If it weren't for a total stranger, an old woman on her way home, talking him down. "I wasn't in a good place back then."

Closeted, struggling, afraid.

Sometimes he was still all three of those things, twelve years later.

"I'm sorry."

Flash shook his head. "I'm here now."

Peter frowned, staring down at the camera in his hands.

"Take a picture of me." Flash posed, turning his head to smile coyly from his darkly upholstered chair. "Photograph me like one of your French girls."

With a bemused breath of laughter, Peter said, "I don't know any French girls," but he held his camera up anyway and took his time lining things up to get the best shot he could, with a click. Flash watched his hands and face move, curious at each little detail. Each little quirk of his expression, tiny shifts around his inscrutable black eyes and split mouth.

Their eyes met—or Flash thought so, at least.

So, like the reasonable person he was, he asked, "Have you ever actually kissed a man?"

Peter's expression shifted to brief surprise, and then settled. 

He hesitated, and wiggled his hand. "Kinda."

"I've kissed three men." Flash held up one hand, to emphasize the number, with three of his fingers splayed out. "One of the guys on my high school football team." He held up one finger, and began to count them off. "A guy in my Alcoholics Anonymous group, a few times." He hadn't thought about that in years. "And my ex-girlfriend's boyfriend." He raised his eyebrows. " _That_ _one_ didn't end well."

Peter snorted. "Oh, _really_. I wouldn’t have guessed." He fiddled with his camera, fidgety as he half-smiled. Drifted off into a more neutral, curious expression. "So you're a fairy."

"Christ." Flash let out a breath. "Yeah, I guess. Are _you_? Or are you just lonely?"

"Ehh..." Peter stood, taking his camera with him. He held it up to his face. "I like pretty faces."

Flash laughed, as Peter took his picture again. "Okay." 

"Like yours."

" _Okay_." Flash threw his arm across his face, fighting the blush that warmed his skin, hiding from the camera.

"Can I kiss you yet?"

Flash held up one finger, admonishing or requesting patience, he wasn't sure.

He moved his arm so he could level Peter with a look, and said, "Ask me again a month from now."

Peter frowned a little exaggeratedly. "Fine." He tucked his camera against his side. "I'm patient." He actually smiled, then, crooked and a little bit soft. "I'll ask again in thirty days."

Flash ignored the gentle pang in his chest, and turned his face to the damp sunlight streaming through the window. Quietly, he said, "I'll hold you to that."

✧✧✧

There was a bouquet of roses in Flash's room when he went upstairs for the evening.

Creamy yellow petals with the slightest paleness to their edges and a deeply colored heart, in a shallow vase on his bedside table. Just a few, fresh-cut, short-stemmed, and perfuming his bedroom in a way he'd never smelled before. Not from modern roses, in modern New York. Almost tea-like, strong and appealing. These were the roses that grew on the side of the house, and showed no sign of fading any time soon.

There were a few petals strewn here and there on the bedsheets, and a sprig of baby's breath on Flash's pillow. By the window there was a vase of lavender as well, contributing to the pleasant aroma that filled the room.

Flash let himself fall onto the sheets, legs half-off the bed.

Was this a seduction?

He grabbed the baby's breath from his pillowcase and held it to his nose.

"You can't seduce me that easily!" Addressed to the bathroom door.

No response, of course.

Flash rolled his eyes and set the flowers aside so he could get ready for bed.

He lay there, in the dark, surrounded by the heavy perfume of flowers.

✧✧✧

The next day, Flash could find neither hide nor hair of Peter.

From the library, to the garden, everything was empty and quiet.

Except…

There was a door set into the wall near the stairs Flash had never noticed before, slightly ajar. He poked his head in to see a narrow staircase, bare walls, bare lights when he turned the switch on. It must have led to the basement. He left the door open behind him, careful down the steps, and called out, "Peter?"

He didn't get a response, but a few spiders scuttled around his feet, to the bottom of the steps—

The basement opened up, wall-to-wall with spiders and webs.

Flash stopped at the foot of the stairs.

He may not have been deeply afraid of spiders, but he had also never seen anything like this before and it made the hairs on his arms stand up. But they were just spiders, minding their own business, occasionally going off elsewhere in little groups.

It wasn't as though the entire space was covered, either. There were just a lot of webs on the walls and the low ceiling, spanning corners and anywhere convenient, while open space led to a few different doorways. An old out-of-use set of servant bells, too, and a dumbwaiter, and signs for the scullery, the wine racks—and Flash never really would have suspected there was a wine cellar down here, but at the same time it wasn't much of a surprise.

There was another door, with a small amber-colored light affixed to the wall beside it, and Flash scuffed his foot against the floor as he considered whether he ought to explore.

His imagination went into overdrive as he walked slowly over to the door, between the resting spiders. One lowered down to rest on his shoulder and he jumped a little, but it just sat there. And still, his mind raced—what could be in there? A cursed painting? A body? A prisoner? Did Peter come down here to work black magic? Did _Norman_?

Flash reached for the knob, flinching slightly at another spider scurrying along the wood just under his fingers—

Just as he went to turn the knob, the door opened.

"Oh!" Peter tilted his head.

The room behind him was lit dimly in amber—lines hanging photos to dry, sinks and equipment—until Peter flicked the lights off and slammed the door shut. The basement plunged into deep darkness.

"Oh." Flash let his heart settle and stepped back awkwardly in the blackness. "Is this your dark room?"

"Shit—" Peter's voice was low. "Yes. Did you turn the lights on?"

Oh no.

"I'm sorry—" Flash fumbled in the pitch darkness of the basement. "I didn't realize—"

Hands found him, and steadied him, and he could hear Peter sigh, and feel a little bit of the gust of his breath.

"If they're ruined I'll just take more." Peter walked Flash backward, carefully, and Flash tried not to stumble under his grip. "They might be fine. I'm not mad."

Flash bit out a short laugh. "You're just disappointed?"

The air brightened as Peter pushed him closer to the stairs, and a little bit of light from the rest of the house filtered down through the open door. Flash could see Peter's face now and he didn't seem all that angry, after all, but he didn't seem too pleased either.

Peter took Flash's face in his hands and repeated, "I'm not mad."

Maybe he was trying to convince himself as much as Flash.

He took a deep breath and let Flash go—Flash wasted no time in hurrying up the stairs with Peter close behind him. Part of him half-expected something to snap, even though Peter had never been harsher to him than friendly negging.

Much as time could ease all wounds, it couldn't entirely erase them, and Flash's instincts were still firmly rooted in place.

But again, Peter just sighed.

"If I was sixteen," He plucked the glasses from his face and rubbed between a few pairs of eyes with a grimace. "I would have clocked you in the face."

Oh, okay.

Instincts not entirely unfounded.

Not that Flash wouldn't have done the same, as a kid.

"Uh." Flash rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry."

Peter shook his head and resettled his glasses. "Like I said," He moved away from Flash, down the hall, leaving the door to the basement closed. "If I have to, I can take new ones. They weren't irreplaceable." He looked over his shoulder at Flash. "I'm not used to having someone around all the time. Thinking about whether someone else is there. It's… well. It's strange."

"Oh." So Flash was a hassle. "Sorry for making things weird, I guess." Flash hunched his shoulders and shuffled awkwardly. He hadn't meant to sound quite so petulant. He was thirty years old, for Christ's sake.

Peter looked heavenward in exasperation and let out a deep sigh. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

Flash frowned. "Whatever, man. I just—I dunno. Sorry. Whatever."

"Come on. It doesn't matter." Peter snapped his fingers at Flash. "Come. Eat with me, I'm starving." He gestured for Flash to follow him.

_Doesn't matter._

_Be obedient._

_Let it drop._

"What's outside the gates?"

Flash looked to Peter stubbornly. Jaw set, skin hot.

It was juvenile—he was being juvenile and immature, but it wasn’t as if he'd asked to be spirited away to another realm, all alone. He knew Peter hadn't meant anything with his comments but Flash was sick of being treated like an afterthought or an inconvenience.

Peter stared at him unblinkingly with his eight glossy eyes.

"Why."

Barely a question. More like an accusation.

"Doesn't matter." Flash huffed. "I'll eat with you."

 _Idiot_.

Peter watched him a moment longer, but he nodded, and headed toward the breakfast room with Flash just behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the early 20th century "fairy" was one of the various in-group ways to refer to other gay and queer men and certain trans/gnc people, alongside various other turns of phrase (like invert, which was more of a medical term) predating our modern terms, tho i'm not sure what its exact status was in ~1920 or so. May have been more common around 1905 which is the time period of the source text I personally was learning from (Autobiography of an Androgyne, largely regarded as one of the first autobios by a trans woman, which I read for a different historical fic that's set in... 1905--anyway, it was published in around 1918 I believe but a lot of the book was written in the previous decade from what I could tell).
> 
> I'm fairly certain it was still in use in the 1910s, though, which is where the majority of Peter's speech patterns are influenced by (not that I'm doing much in the way of historical speech patterns but to be fair the 1910s and 1920s have had an incredibly lasting influence on modern casual speech so really he wouldn't have spoken that much differently aside from a few linguistic quirks and probably a lot more Yiddish than I've included considering the presence of Yiddish language newspapers in early 20th century New York)
> 
> Naturally, being from 2020, Flash doesn't come from that linguistic background, so to him it's loaded a little differently (ntm has probably been leveled at him as an insult by his own father)... but he knows Peter isn't being a dick. Elsewise he probably would've clocked peter on the spot 😅 
> 
> The rest of this fic still isn't finished past halfway through chapter 4 but I'm just  
> posting to feel 😩  
> 2021 may be slightly better than the last 5 months on a personal front but I'm still very tired and frustrated with, you know, Everything In The World and I haven't been writing much actual prose (just plot outlines and dialogue scenes) lately, and certainly not for this fic. I wonder if I will ever finish the ending to be honest but... I'll try!! I will.  
> I've mostly been drawing and thinking about the Fantastic Four stories I would write if I had the opportunity/focus.  
> So many ideas, so little time, keep coming up with new ideas and not finishing the old ones, etc.
> 
> Oh, sidenote-the camera Peter is using is a [Herbert & Huesgen Tourist Multiple!](https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/herbert-huesgen-tourist-multiple-496057067)


End file.
